Mother of Isengard
by Enros
Summary: An ignorant and illiterate Dunlander, sold into slavery by her own village, is taken to Saruman’s Fortress of Isengard, where she rises to a position of power and influence. Everything you wanted to know about Uruk-hai but were afraid to ask. CHAPTER 5
1. Onset of Winter

Chapter 1         Onset of Winter 

Lavan woke her with a low growling, and it only took a glance at his trembling body and stiff ears to know that it was wolves.

"Good dog." She whispered, shrugging off her sheepskins and rising to her feet in the chill night air. 

Every year they came earlier, always bolder, always more numerous. 

The sheep had scented them now and had begun to mill and call within the walls of their fold. Rinn kicked some more branches onto the fire, sending up a scurry of red sparks, and bent to pick up her heavy crook.

Farn pressed against her leg, the younger dog's hair standing straight along her back.

"Hey-down." She commanded softly, and the bitch dropped noiselessly to her belly.

The sky was dark with clouds and she could hear nothing above the noise of the flock as they bleated their distress, but she knew they would be coming upslope. She had followed the sheep on this mountain since taking her first steps, and the wolves always came up from the forest at the beginning of winter. 

She stepped forward so that the fire was behind her, her shadow tossed darkly across the rough grass by the flames, calling softly to the dogs, sending them out to the left and right. 

The shadows of the wolves moved among the rocks, watching, waiting, gauging the time and place to attack. The leader would come first, hoping to keep her pinned down long enough to allow the others to flank round to the fold and jump the walls.

A long howl split the air, raising the dark hair on her own neck and setting the sheep to crying anew. A shadow moved to her left.

"Lavan!" she hissed, "Go by, lad." And he sprang away, a white gleam against the night.

At that second the leader came out of the darkness at a run, heading straight for her, his feet fast and silent, his pelt black as the night. 

Fran's teeth bared and her growl was loud.

"Fran. Come by." She sent the other dog out to the right, and lifting her staff, readied it. 

Faster he came, over the turf, breaking into a long lope, eyes bright with the fire and teeth gleaming. But she was ready for him, bringing the bottom of the crook up sharply as he sprang, smashing it into the narrow jaw with a satisfying crunch, knocking him to the ground. Quickly she stabbed downwards with the haft to crush the skull but he was too fast for her, rolling out of her reach to scrabble to his feet. She pursued him, attacking mercilessly with the stout stave, blow after blow until he turned tail and fled. But behind her the dominant female, the pack mother, was already in motion towards the walls of the fold, two others close on her heels. From the darkness on either side she could hear the sounds of snapping jaws and the snarling fury of the dogs. 

She turned with a yell, breaking into a run, stooping briefly to snatch a brand from the fire as she passed. With a full-throated ululation she charged towards the wolves, brandishing the flame in her left hand. The bitch was already crouching for the leap that would carry her to the top of the wall. Rinn raised her arm and sent her crook whistling through the air, deadly as a spear, striking the animal squarely in the ribs and dropping it to the ground. The second wolf turned in mid-run, snarling, to launch at her and she thrust the brand into its face.

But there were too many, and the third wolf gained his feet atop the wall, jaw open, his long tongue slavering in anticipation. The sight and scent of him sending the sheep into panic.

Then a different cry sounded from behind her, and a thrumming in the air caused the victorious wolf to twist and yelp, the pale flight of the arrow quivering in his side.

"Rinn!" The cry came again.

"Alric!" she shouted, running forward to snatch up her crook. "Well met!" 

Another arrow found its mark in the darkness with a short, sharp yelp.

Rinn advanced on the female wolf, the animal limping now, snapping and snarling at the foot of the fold, and dispatched her with a sharp blow to the back of the skull. The rest of the pack turned tail and fled, Alric's arrows accounting for two more before they made the cover of the forest.

"Four." He called to Rinn as he turned back up the slope, "I'll have myself a fine coat this winter." 

She called to her dogs, and as they returned to her side, she bent to them. He doglegged to pick up his heavy peddler's pack, dropped at the edge of the meadow, hoisting it onto one shoulder as he made his way back to the fire. Satisfied that her animals were uninjured she stood so that she was silhouetted against the flames. Crook still in hand, she waited for him, and as he approached he thought that she looked almost beautiful. Tall, strong, and perfectly proportioned. It was only as he closed the distance that it became apparent that the breadth of shoulder and hip, buttressed by the same dense Dunlending muscle as his own, was matched by a height topping his by more than a head. Then she turned so that the light fell on the left side of her face, and the illusion was wholly shattered, resolving itself once more into the silvered ridges and puckers of old scars.

"Only one for me." She laughed as he reached her. "Thank you, Alric."

"You should learn to shoot." He replied, dipping a shoulder to drop his pack. "It's far more effective than a staff."

"Aye." She turned to find the kettle, "But you need two seeing eyes to sight a bow, Alric."

"What food have you?" he asked, settling himself on her sheepskins, "I'm starved."

"There's some stew left, but no bread."

"Well, that's no loss" he chuckled. Rinn's bread was notoriously terrible,  "I've some biscuit somewhere, and ale." He rummaged for it while she set the food to heat.

"Is that you on your way home for the winter now?" she asked, squatting beside him, instinctively averting her bad side. The dogs lay quietly by the fire, their eyes on their mistress at all times.

"Aye." He settled back, "It's not been a bad year for me either, people are all the more glad of news when times are unsettled, and the more they stand and listen, the more they buy."

"But none of it will affect us up here surely, these mountains are useless to the Horse-men, and the Kings of the West agreed long since that we could enjoy them in peace."

"Aye, but at a price." Alric lifted the jar of ale and unstopped it. "And now they're saying it's time to pay." He swigged noisily, and wiped his sleeve over his mouth. "A new tax, to pay for their war with the East."

"How much will it be?" Rinn dished up the stew, her voice worried. "I know the harvest hasn't been good."

"It's been set at ten silver marks for the village." He looked over at her. "I reckon they'll have to sell a good third of the flock to raise it." He drew his spoon from his jerkin and began to eat.

Rinn looked pensively into the fire, rubbing unconsciously at her scars. A third of the flock. Her flock. Although the sheep belonged to the village, she alone had tended them since her grandfather's death more than fifteen years before. She had found them the best grass, kept them safe from wolves, allowed only the finest ewes to breed, and the sheep had grown strong, fat and healthy under her care. Now to lose a third of them to the Men of Gondor, it was enough to make her teeth ache.

"That was good." Alric tossed the empty bowl aside, and lifted his jar for another drink. "Here." He handed her the bottle, "Want some?"

She took it wordlessly, and sipped a mouthful of the cold malty beer. 

"Now then," he patted the skins beside him, with a grin, "How about you come over here and keep me warm?"

Always she felt bad afterwards, lying wakeful while he snored oblivious beside her.  No, that wasn't entirely true. The first few times it had happened, she had been full of joy. Imagining that he wanted her, that he desired her. Foolishness, but there are none so blind as those who see what they want. It was only as time went on and there were no words of love, no promises or presents, that she began to realise. And to notice how he never kissed her, never looked at her face, never held her afterward. So she learned to accept their occasional coupling for what it was, a brief sharing of bodies, and sometimes she took pleasure in it. Her pride provoked her on it, telling her she demeaned herself, but the truth was, he was the only person to touch her since she was a child and used though she was to the loneliness, any form of affection was better than none. 

*   *   *   *   *   *

"Quiet now." The village headman shouted in a vain effort to make himself heard above the clamour of the council. 

"Ten marks!"

"It's outrageous!"

"We can't raise that!"

"Don't they know we'll starve? Grasping Westlanders, never satisfied with what they have. Always after more!" This from Talm the Weaver, a squat squint-eyed fellow.

"Quiet!" Mardoc tried again, and the din subsided a little. "Now listen up," he lifted the parchment in his hand. "There's naught we can do about this tax, onerous though it is, besides pay it."

"Nay!"

"Why should we?!"

"Because if we don't, they'll send soldiers to gather it, and we'll be the ones to suffer."

"We can fight them." Bret, the youngest member, slammed his fist down on the table.

"What us? Fight the might of Gondor? Don't be a fool." Talm returned, "They'd be happy for the excuse to burn the village and take everything."

"We fought them before."

"That was hundreds of years ago!" snapped Mardoc, "Besides which, we lost. Why else do we cling here to the upper reaches of the mountains while their farms and animals cover our ancestral lands.

"What's the tax for, anyway?"

Mardoc consulted the notice again, "For war against the East."

"Who're they fighting now? Surely not the Horse-folk?"

"No, worst luck!" Alric grimaced, "Further East, some say it's Mordor."

A silence fell over the room, and two or three of the men made the sign against the evil eye.

"Mordor!" spat Talm, "There's no such place, that's just made up to scare bairns at bedtime."

"Aye, well." Mardoc sighed heavily, "Knowing its purpose won't make it any easier to find the money."

"That's true." Agreed Talm, and heads nodded about the table. 

"The only way we can do it is to sell the flock."

"Ach!" Talm was disgusted, "They'll fetch little if we sell them now – who buys sheep at the start of winter? They'd go for meat prices only, and we'd have to sell nigh on half to make the money."

"He's right!"

"But what other choice have got?"

The squabbling broke out anew and the headman raised his hands in despair.

"Goodmen!" Alric's voice was loud. "Please!" 

They turned their heads to look at him.

"What if I was to tell you there was a way to raise the tax money, and a bit more besides, without having to sell a single one of your sheep?"

They looked at one another with surprise and not a little scepticism.

"Of course," Alric grinned, "I would expect a small commission."

"Oh, of course!" Talm's voice was scathing.

"If we decide to go with your suggestion, there'll be something in it for you, I give you my word." Mardoc's voice was firm. "Now why don't you tell us what you've got in mind."

*   *   *   *   *   *

The sun gleamed from the snowy tips of the mountains behind her, while overhead the sky was cold and cloudless, and the dark forests of the valley seemed only a hand's breath away beneath her. Rinn strode quickly with long, easy strides, her crook carried loosely in one hand. 

"Come by!" she called to the dogs, giving a long whistle, as they ran the flanks. In front of her, the sheep jostled along in a contented melee, calling placidly to one another. She gave a great smile to herself as she watched the undulating flow of thick white woolly backs, the flock was the biggest and best it had ever been. Pride swelled in her heart to see them. This was the best part of the year, driving the sheep down the valley to winter in the village. Let them see how well she had carried out her task, how much she had increased their wealth. For one day at least there would be smiles and nods of approval. For one day at least no-one would whisper about bears, or cursed blood.

By late afternoon they were rounding the bend in the road leading down into the village. The sheep scampered happily, the older ewes knowing the way, and heading for the tasty fodder that awaited them in their winter quarters.

"Here they are!" shouted a small boy playing in front of the village gates, "The sheep are coming!"

The heavy wooden gates were flung wide as the flock reached them, the dogs busy keeping order as the impatient animals bumped and barged their way through the narrow opening. Rinn walked behind them, proud and tall, holding her head high, as if daring them to look at her.

"The sheep! The sheep!" the grubby faced lad was running beside her now, shouting excitedly.

"Tac!" his mother's sharp cry sounded from a doorway, "Come in here, lad!"

"But Mam!" he pointed, "The sheep!" 

"Now!"

No-one came out to wave as she passed,  and she met no other children along the way. Only closed doors, and shadows peering from behind half-open shutters. The village was silent save for the yipping of the dogs, and the bleating of the sheep.

'What in the name of the Great Mother is going on now?' thought Rinn to herself, feeling a familiar exasperation with the ingrained superstition and narrow mindedness of her mother's people.   

Ahead of her some men of the village had gathered about the sheep fold, watching as the flock poured into their field, the nimble shapes of Fran and Lavan darting to and fro to prevent any stragglers, and when the last set of white woolly legs had trotted neatly through, they heaved the gate into place. 

Rinn called the dogs to her side, and strode up to greet the headman. She dwarfed him, both in height and stature, but she spoke humbly and with respect.

"There's eighty-two head this year, Master Mardoc."

He nodded curtly, his eyes deftly avoiding her face.

"That's fifteen more than last year."

Beside her Lavan growled, low and menacingly in his throat.

"No, lad!" she scolded. "Be quiet now."

"Aye," the headman nodded slowly, "That's good."

"Well then." Rinn looked around at the silent onlookers, "if that's all, I'll get settled in."

Mardoc stepped back, allowing her to make her way to the cramped, single-roomed cottage adjoining the sheep fold that was her winter home. The dogs followed closely on her heels, Lavan still with lips drawn back. 

Pushing open the door, Rinn stood a moment in the entrance letting her eye get used to the dark, watching as shapeless shadows resolved themselves into the familiar outlines of table and bed. 

"Go on, then." She motioned to the two dogs, who leapt happily over the threshold, to sniff and snuff into every corner, then she tossed her staff into the corner and shrugged off her heavy sheepskin coat. Here she was, home again, in this room where she had come squalling into the world, just as her mother left it. In this room where she had sat many nights upon her grandfather's knee and listened to tales of old. In this room where they had brought his mangled body the night that the Bear had come. In this room where she, still only a child, had stumbled bleeding and terrified after them to crouch alone and shunned in a corner. 

"Witch!" some had hissed.

"Westlander." From others. "It's an obscenity that their blood should mix with ours. See her, nearly the height of a man and only half a score years out of the cradle. It's unnatural."

"She's a curse on this village, she should be killed."

"Even the Bear would not take her."

"Leave her then, let her live or die by fate, but not by our hand."

'Aye, by fate.' She thought wryly, as she prepared the fire, 'And by fate, I lived, though none of you expected it.'


	2. The Secret Army

Chapter 2               The Secret Army 

Night was falling, the sun burying itself behind the southern peaks of the Misty Mountains, and long shadows creeping over the Fortress of Isengard, when Old Yabbe roused her weary bones from the sleeping couch. 

"Boy." She rasped, pushing aside the luxurious furs, and reaching out a gnarled foot to kick the golden-haired youth curled up on the rug. "Awake now."

"Yes, mistress." His reply was sullen and he rose only slowly, yawning and stretching long limbs clad in expensive silk. Tugging sulkily at the slave's collar about his neck.

She sighed inwardly. It was always the same with these horse-boys, never mind how young one got them. Beautiful to look at and, given the right aphrodisiac, virile in bed, but ever with proud, stiff necks. For a few weeks they would be cowed and willing, but always too soon would come the insolence and rebellion.

Crouched by the doorway, her orc attendants had also seen the boy's reluctance, and the familiar look of disenchantment on their mistress' face. Dark tongues licked over snarled yellow teeth in hungry anticipation. The old woman was starting to tire of her latest pet, and when she did, she would give him to them. They rubbed their misshapen hands together greedily, and cackled quietly to themselves. There would be sport, and a feast.

Having bathed and breakfasted, Yabbe hobbled through from her finely appointed inner chamber to her workroom, leaning heavily on her stick. All around were wooden tables crammed with herbs and powders. Minerals and precious substances from all corners of Middle Earth sat in jars and leather bags, while leaves and flowers from far away valleys and forests hung in bunches from the ceiling. Cauldrons and crucibles, flasks and bottles, held liquids and potions for all manner of purpose. To increase desire or to deflate it, to bind in love or engender hate, to beget children or abort them, to heal, to sicken, and to kill.

"Mistress." Her orc slaves gathered expectantly, fawning and slavering in their eagerness to please her. And she was pleased. For once she had been a slave to such as these, toiling endlessly in the seeping darkness under the Misty Mountains. But no more. For fate had led her to a great treasure, given her the wit to recognise it and shown her the way to Isengard where for twenty years it had brought her wealth and power.

'Aye, but what now?' A voice whispered in her head. 'For you have nearly used the last of it, and despite all your efforts, you cannot make more.'

'Ach!' she dismissed it. For there was time yet before more was needed, and even if she could not find the secret, she had had twenty good years. Aye, and nearly forty before that, since the day she crawled away, aged and broken, hoping that death would find her.

She looked round at her servants, eager and obsequious, their keen eyes and dark, twisted faces watching her expectantly, and a fond smile came to her withered face.

"Come then," she croaked, shuffling towards the door, a slave scuttling forward eagerly to open it for her. "We have much work to do today."

They stepped out onto a wooden walkway above the heat and hubbub of the Birthing Pit. The air was filled with the stench of smoke and decay, the rough stone walls reflecting the red light of a thousand brands and everywhere, clambering up ladders and scurrying across planks, were orcs. An army of them, all at her command, all busily readying everything for this most important event. 

"Mistress Yabbe." The overseer lurched up to her, a grin on his grotesque face.

"Lor." She greeted him respectfully. "Is everything ready?"

"Yes indeed." His red eyes glinted expectantly, and his long teeth shone in the firelight.

"Excellent. Have someone send to The Master."

He nodded assent and, having snarled a command to the minion at his shoulder, he turned and walked slowly with her towards the steps.

"Looks like it'll be a good clutch." He hawked and spat heartily, "Perhaps even the best we've ever had."

Yabbe chuckled hoarsely, "You say that every time, Lor."

Saruman the Wise pushed open the doors of his council chamber, and stood forth upon the balcony of Orthanc to view his kingdom. His white robes caught the last of the sun's light, fracturing it into tiny fragments of colour. The smell of smoke was acrid in the air, and he lifted his long face to breath it in with a great satisfaction. The cacophony of forges and workshops that rose to greet him was music to his ears.

Isengard never slept. By day and by night his people toiled, their effort bent to his will. Slaves and freemen; labourers and artisans; miners and armourers; smiths and animal masters; cooks and laundresses; field hands and herdsmen; and above all, soldiers. Day by day his army grew, both in strength and in numbers. The dark Haradrim from the south and east, lean and hungry for land; the wild men of the mountains, ignorant and savage; the ambitious and disaffected from the cities of Gondor. Mercenaries from all corners of the world, greedy and ruthless, and Orcs. Orcs from beneath the Misty Mountains, cowardly and unreliable individually, but massed in their thousands, a terrible and unstoppable blight. Uruks too, great black Orcs from Mordor, proud and fierce, and oh so very useful. But never to be trusted, for they had another Master before him. 

At the thought of Him, Saruman gave an almost imperceptible shudder and suppressed the urge to look round. The Palantir, the Seeing Stone, was safely covered, _He_ was not looking.  The reach of Sauron was very long, and the power of Mordor very great - and yet it was not complete. All was yet to play for, and there were many secrets still to be kept. 

Secrets. Yes. The secret of the Ring and the search for it. The race for it. For he that found it first might name himself Lord of the World. And a secret army. An army such as even Sauron himself had never conceived.

"My Lord." His servant's voice was low and soft but perfectly clear. "Mistress Yabbe has sent to say that the birthing is about to begin."

"Excellent." Saruman withdrew into his chamber, drawing the doors closed behind him, and pausing only to take up his Wizard's staff, he strode unhurriedly from the room.

Supporting her aged frame on the strong shoulder of a young orc, Yabbe made her way laboriously down the wooden steps to edge of the Birthing Pit. There, in the warm, wet mud that was the belly of Isengard, slept its children. Fully grown now, and ready to be wakened. Painfully she crouched to examine each one, pushing her wasted hands carefully through the sticky ooze to run them over the slick surface of the moist sac beneath. Feeling the fine, strong bodies, pulsing with new life, writhe and twist under her touch. Timing was critical, many of the first had been torn from their earthen womb too early - with terrible consequences. Death and deformity for some, while others had been perfect in body but damaged in mind, insane and untameable. But now the technique was perfected. From the meticulous preparation of the growing medium, through the selection of sire and host, then careful nurturing of each tiny new life, until after months of succour - fruition. 

"The Master comes." Lor hissed from behind her, and she straightened slowly to watch the wizard Saruman make his way down the long ramp towards them. He moved effortlessly, gliding with long, unhurried steps, his white beard and flowing hair a centre of calm power amid the filth and clamour of the huge cavern. A good master he was to those who served him well, rewarding them with gold and slaves, but to those who failed him he was merciless. Yabbe was high in his favour, for without her secret the army could not have been bred, and yet, when it was gone, what then? She pushed aside the worry, she was too old to care, the future would bring what it would, for now it was the time to bring forth the children of Isengard.

As he crossed the gallery above the Birthing Pit, Saruman looked down at Yabbe with well-concealed distaste. It galled him a little that such a filthy decrepit old hag should have stumbled on the secret he had sought for so many years. But it pained him more that with all his wisdom and lore, he could not explain it. Simple earth, that was all it was, and yet there was something special, something magical, about this particular dirt, gathered from a damp and stinking cave beneath the Misty Mountains, that had enabled him to at last achieve his aim.

A tiny ironic smile touched the corner of his quiet mouth. Orcs and Men, the two species filled the world with their progeny, rutting and breeding like rabbits - but not together. The differences between the two species were just too great. Orcs had no need of females among themselves, but could not be bred with man nor woman, neither after the manner of Orcs nor the manner of Men, though they gave themselves eagerly to the task of trying. Only the chance discovery of this base, yet potent, soil, and the hand of fortune that had guided its bearer here, had allowed the coition to be successful. And successful it was, beyond his wildest dreams. So as he looked down at the wizened old crone, he felt his irritation subside, for she had served him faithfully, and without her the new warrior sons of Isengard, his fighting Uruk-hai, would never have been born.

"My Lord," her voice was as aged as her body, "They are ready."

He gave a single grave nod, "Begin."

Yabbe withdrew to the top of the stairs. Birthing was always a dangerous time. The newborn were very strong, and in the shock and confusion of their awakening, often violent. Lor began to direct his underlings, and with busy hands they cleared away the mire from about the first opaque sac, its occupant a dark shadow already moving within. Slitting the membrane they hastily dragged it free before leaping backwards. 

A dark-hewn and mighty head lifted itself from the birthing mud, and with a great rasp took its first ragged breath, burning lungs and intoxicating blood. Eyes opened beneath the heavy brow, yellow and gleaming, and as the pain of new light struck them, the mouth uncovered its jagged fangs and snarled its first wordless curse at the world. Another breath was all that was needed to galvanise the powerful muscles into life and they lifted the great body, broad and strong, tall as the tallest man and dark as the night, to stand in magnificent defiance, filling the cavern with a roar of anger and exaltation at being alive.


	3. A Curse Upon You

Chapter 3    A Curse Upon You 

"Rinn." The voice was not much more than a whisper, and at first she wasn't sure she'd heard anything. 

"Rinn." Somewhat louder. 

"Alric?" she sat up in bed, wiping the sleep from her face. It was still dark. "What is it?"

"I need to speak with you."

"What about?" her breath was coalescing in the cold air, "Can't it wait until morning?"

"Please, Rinn. It's important."

"Oh, very well." She sighed, and reaching for her sheepskin coat she shrugged it over her shoulders. She struggled into her breeches and half heartedly tucked in her coarse linen shirt as she made her way to the door. Lavan pressed himself to her side, growling. 

" Oh, stop!" she scolded. "It's just Alric."

She reached for the latch and the dog began to bare his teeth. "That's enough! Go and lie down." She pointed to the end of the bed where Farn was still curled. The dog obeyed reluctantly, and she pulled open the door and stepped out into the freezing night.

"Alric?" She could just about make him out, standing against the sheep fold in the darkness. "What …"

From her blind side a cracking blow to the head felled her to the ground, stunned with pain and surprise, hardly time to cry out. Her stomach heaved and the earth beneath her swayed, and before she could gather her wits sufficiently to try and rise, she was pinned down by a knee between her shoulders. From the cottage behind her the dogs exploded in a frenzy of noise, barking and flinging themselves against the closed door.

 Her captor shouted in an unfamiliar tongue, dragging her arms painfully up her back and binding them tightly. The pain in her head was dazzling, and the taste of blood sharp in her mouth.

"Alric!" she managed to call, struggling to try and gain her feet. Where was he?

But no arrow came from his bow to strike down these wolves, and as she was dragged up onto her knees, she saw the truth for what it was. 

The Elders of the village stood in silence and watched as she was jerked to her feet and a lantern held up to her face.

"Ai!" Cried the man holding it, tall as she was, his dark bearded face splitting into a grin, "She's just as ugly as you described!" He ran a hand over her shoulders and down her arms appreciatively, "And just as strong."

Rinn jerked away from him. "Don't touch me!" she snarled, twisting and lashing out with her bare feet. She felt a solid impact and he went down on one knee cursing.

Her dogs redoubled their fury, the rotting hinges of the door starting to give way beneath their onslaught. She sprang forward, ready to run, but they were everywhere. She circled, looking for a space, ducking and weaving as they tried to come for her. Another slaver, young and fair, swung his heavy staff at her, whacking into her shoulder and knocking her back to her knees. Now the bearded man approached again, uncoiling a heavy whip from his belt. 

The dogs broke free, hurling themselves at him in a whirlwind of snarling teeth.

The fair-haired man pinned her to the ground by the shoulders, shouting for assistance while she writhed and bucked in an attempt to throw him off. She flung her head backwards into his face, smashing his nose, then rolled to try and shake him. Another was coming at her with more ropes.

A yelp sounded from her right, and she looked round to see Farn on the ground, bloody and still, the feathers of an arrow quivering in her side.

"No!" she shouted, renewing her efforts, twisting and kicking.

The men were cursing now, in their own tongue, and a fist smashed again and again against the side of her head, stunning her.

"Hold!" A voice commanded.

She looked up to see the dark-haired man standing in a face-off with Lavan. The dog crouched, snarling and ready to leap. The man was poised with bow drawn and arrow knocked.

"If your dog moves I will kill him." He growled.

"No!" she cried.

"Command him to lay down."

"Lavan." She called, her voice choking, "Down by."

The dog's eyes never moved from the man's but he sank to the ground at her word.

"Good lad." She whispered.

"Submit and I will let him live."

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, and behind her the slaver fastened a running noose about her neck, while another fixed heavy shackles about her ankles. Her arms were loosed then rebound in front of her.

Grief and betrayal swept over her. Why? Why were they doing this to her? Hadn't she always served the village faithfully? She looked round at the men of the tribe, hard eyed and justified. Even Alric had no shame beneath her bitter gaze, only a look of grim satisfaction. She had thought herself inured to their rejection, but this was far past any wrong she had ever expected. She steeled herself to hold her head high, and bit down hard on the sorrow. 

Very well, let it be so. She could not fare worse as a slave than she had among her own people.

The fair-haired man came round in front of her, her tether coiled about his hand and holding a blood-sodden cloth to his nose. "Filthy peasant!" He struck her across the face, the force of the blow knocking her off her feet. The rope about her neck tightened, choking her, and he drove his fist into her again. 

"Ai! Elrdred! Enough!" Breron threw down his bow and ran up to where the younger man was beating the captive. "You reduce her price! Arnac will have it from our wages!"

"Phsaw!" The younger man spat, bloody spittle flecking his lips. "No one will buy her for her face."

"Nevertheless," Breron snatched the rope from Elrdred, "He'll count every scratch against us. Besides, she's no use if she can't walk."

"Can't walk?!" Elrdred wiped his face again, "Look at her, strong as an ox – and twice as ugly!" he laughed harshly.

"That's enough now." Breron's voice was grim. "Here." He rummaged in his jerkin and retrieved a small bag of coin. "Pay the villagers, and let's begone from this stinking midden."

"Stand up, woman!" he commanded in Dunlending. She did so unsteadily, and he scrutinised her bruised and swollen face. It wasn't too bad, didn't look like anything was broken. She was starting to shake, probably from the cold as much as shock. 

He cast round for her coat, dropped near the door of the tumbledown shack.

"Here Jarn." He passed the rope to the other man and walked over to the hovel. The dog growled threateningly as he passed it, but remained obedient to his mistress' command.

"No." One of the villagers objected as he retrieved the heavy sheepskin, grabbing it from him "It's too good." The man ducked into the decrepit dwelling and emerged holding out a noisome blanket. "Take this."

Breron looked hard at the man for a minute. The trade in slaves was his business, and he knew there were many reasons why poor villages like this might sell some unfortunate inhabitant. But to deny her even her coat on a bitter night like this? Ah well, he shrugged, gingerly accepting the matted woollen coverlet.

"Come on," he called to the others, "Let us make haste, we need to be back at the camp by dawn." He tossed the blanket over the woman's shoulders and began to lead them towards the gate. 

Wait a minute, what had he forgotten?

"Elrdred!" He shouted to the younger man catching up behind them, "Get my bow, will you?"

Rinn found herself following in a daze. Her head was aching, her face throbbing in pain, and an empty bitterness filled her heart. The Elders were turning away now, melting back into the night as they returned to their houses. Shadows whispered at windows and slipped through doorways. Still motionless outside the cottage Lavan raised his voice in a long whine as she reached the gate. She turned her head, suddenly heartsick, tears at last coming to her eyes. He must not follow her, but neither could he stay here.

"Home, lad." She called quietly, commanding him back up the mountain from whence they had come that morning. At least he'd have a chance there. And if she could escape she could find him again. 

He raised himself up, and trotted past them out of the gate, his white coat gleaming in the darkness. She smiled to see him go as though he were carrying her hope with him.

She did not hear the bow being drawn, nor the arrow loosed. The heavy thump and Lavan's cry as he fell were the first she knew.

"Aah!" she cried aloud, a new grief ripping open in her. She tried to run to him but was pulled up short by the noose about her neck. She struggled against it, choking herself heedlessly, tears streaming unchecked. "Lavan!"

From behind her she heard a laugh, and she flung her head round to see the fair-haired man toss the bow to its owner, his bloody face grinning at her.

She stopped fighting as an icy rage gripped her, freezing her heart and stopping her tears. She drew herself straight and looked into his laughing eyes. "I will kill you for that." She stated it quietly. "I swear it." He laughed aloud, calling out in Westron to his companions, raising a chuckle from them. 

"Come, woman!" the bearded man drew out his whip and motioned her to continue up the road. 

     She began to walk, but as she passed the sad, lifeless bundle that had been Lavan, she turned her wrath on the darkened village and its hidden people. "Cursed be this place forever!" She spat harshly upon the ground, and raised her voice so that it rang from the mountains. "May your crops rot in the fields, your animals be barren and your women drop their children early! For the lack of mercy you have shown me, so shall no mercy be shown you. A curse on you and your children, and on your children's children! May you be driven from your homes to starve destitute in the lands of strangers!"  


	4. Fresh Blood

Chapter 4Fresh Blood

Darkness. Utter darkness. And blood, the taste of blood. His blood. Trapped. Powerless. His hands empty of weapons, his limbs broken and useless. A voice whimpering in fear. His voice. Pain. Torment. Defeat.

"No!" Tulûk roared. Tearing himself awake. Ripping his mind free of the dream, dragging it up from the dark mire of ancient memory. His great frame shuddered and sweat beaded on his heavy brow.

"Not me." He fought to regain command of his wayward breathing, wiping the sweat from his swart, scarred face. "That was not me." He tore aside the heavy fur coverings and rose to his feet. Broad feet planted squarely on the cold flagstones, he sucked in lungfuls of the bitter evening air, feeling his body still and the power return to his muscles. 

"I am of the Fighting Uruk-hai." He growled, clenching his heavy fists, relishing the strength in them. "I feel no pain. I know no fear." No fear of anything that walked the earth. Only the fear that lurked in the deepest pits of his own mind. 

"That fear is not mine." He tried to recapture the elusive blood-memory, to see it again, to look out from those long-dead eyes. "That was not my defeat, that was not my pain and I shall not fear to face it." 

But it was gone, a dark shadow fading back into the blackness of immeasurable years. One of the oldest memories. Those were the ones with the fear and the pain. The newer ones were bright with blood-lust and battle-fever. The memories of his sire, and of his line back into the dark mists of time. Orcs all. 

His human blood carried no memories. But it spoke to him in other ways. Spurring his mind and stirring his thoughts. Driving him always with restless dissatisfaction and fearless curiosity.

He stretched his great limbs, easing the stiffness of sleep from his muscles, then with a groan of satisfaction relieved himself noisily into the pot.

"Muuk!" He shouted for his servant as he readjusted his loincloth. Immediately the heavy door opened and the old orc limped in.

"Master." Broken yellow teeth grinned in a dark, seamed face. Muuk's hair was grey and thin, and he bore many marks of old battles. His sword arm was a ragged stump above the elbow, and a shrunken socket gaped where once his red right eye had shone. But his tattered ears were heavy with victory rings, his remaining eye was bright and his shield arm still strong. At his snarled command two slaves scuttled in. Snaga. The lowest of the Orc castes. Serfs, witless cravens with neither skill at arms nor in craft. Yet even they had a place in Isengard, even they had tasks to fulfil.

One hurried to bring Tulûk a heavy jar of water, while the other removed the soil pot.

"Will you eat now?" Muuk asked and Tulûk grunted assent as he lifted the jar and poured the icy contents over his head with a growl of pleasure.

The water cascaded over his dark head and thick neck, shining on the muscles of the shoulders and chest, bathing the ridged scars on face and arm. The long hair clung to the straight back, and the iron ear-rings shone blackly. The mighty arms too gleamed with smithwork. The left carried his personal wealth - gold and hack-silver. While on the right, an iron arm-ring denoted his allegiance to the Sur-ghâsh, the Legion of the West Quarter, and two bands of gold his rank as Sergeant. But there was no ring of clanship, for the Uruk-hai were a new race and their loyalty was to Saruman alone.

Tulûk dragged on his leather tunic then ate quickly of the bread and meat that the slaves brought. Today he would have his pick of the newborn, fresh recruits to replace the attrition. Birth brothers. Wild-eyed and raw, full of anger and lust, just as he had been ten short years ago. To be honed by him into fearless and disciplined warriors, fit to march into battle with his troop, to spill blood with them and share the flesh of their enemies. The weak and the unlucky would die in training. The unworthy he would kill. 

The last light of the day reflected redly from the tops of the dark spike of Orthanc as Tulûk stepped out onto the wooden gallery above the great arena. Like most of the others in the fortress of Isengard, his living quarters were in the mighty ring wall. One hundred feet high, one hundred and fifty feet thick, and formed from solid rock, it enclosed a great circular basin almost a mile in diameter. Thousands of windows were set into the rough stone, and behind them rooms of every shape, size and function. At ground level, store houses, stables and mess-halls. Above them, reached by wooden galleries and stairs, were barracks and living chambers. Torches snapped and fluttered in their thousands and everywhere was the clamour of activity. At dusk, as at dawn, all of Isengard was abroad. Orcs and other night-folk waking from their rest as those of the day finished their work.

Tulûk's corporal emerged from the barracks accompanied by two warriors, and followed him wordlessly as he strode along the gangway and down the stairs.The arena was busy but the workers and slaves needed no warning to make way for the Uruk-hai, who were well known for their long knives and short patience. Many pits and caverns were delved in the ground of Isengard, some dark and narrow, others wide maws, red with fire. From some came forth metal, from some stone. Workers went into them all. The one they sought stood in the very shadow of Orthanc itself, and from it came forth new life. 

As always it was the smell that came to him first, up from the deep cavern that sheltered the Birthing Pit. A smell as familiar to him as that of his own sweat, and yet still thrilling him with its echo of the new. Behind him the others were also silent as they made their way down the long steep earthen ramp, for all were returning to the place of their birth. All scented the rank comfort of the seeping womb that had nourished them, heard again the harsh clamour that had been their cradle-song. Felt once more the pain and terror of awakening. The stabbing of light at their eyes, the burning of air in their lungs, the fear, the confusion and the anger. Bright red rage suffused with raw joy at being alive.

As they neared the bottom of the ramp they could see the new recruits already waiting, kept roughly in line by vigilant overseers. They would have been fed their first meal. Always the flesh of men, so that ever after they might crave it. And under the ready lash they would have tasted their first pain at the hands of another.

"Sir." The overseer greeted him respectfully, and Tulûk accorded him the same wary courtesy. The thick leather lash that hung at the orc's belt was not likely the same one that had stung Tulûk into wakefulness, but the hand that wielded it was. And although the Uruk had long since learned the necessity of order, the memory of that first pain still burned bright.

He looked along the ranks of the nameless as they stood, proud and sullen, similar yet not identical, though they shared both sire and host. 

"A full complement?" he asked the orc.

"Less only one." 

"Death?"

The overseer twitched his head in a gesture of negation, eyes flickering briefly towards the back of the cavern. Darkness covered the pit there, a black oubliette where even the bravest of the Uruk-hai would fear to look. A repository for the damned, those misshapen in body or deformed in mind. Food was given to them, from time to time, and some lived, their haunted howls rising unheeded into the noise of the Birth Chamber.

Tulûk felt his skin shudder and turned silently to walk amongst the newborn, eyes and hands raking over the shining bodies, seeking out the strongest. Looking hard into each face, into every baleful eye. Strength he needed and courage, but also obedience. With these he could build a soldier, a loyal and fearless warrior, the weapon with which the White Hand of Saruman would dominate the world.

A curt nod here and there, then Corporal Shart and the overseer would cut out the chosen one, separating him from his fellows. Half a dozen would be enough to fill the four empty places in his barracks. Growls of protest and mutters of incomprehension ran through the group, few having mastered their memories enough to form words. 

One more. 

Tulûk stopped before a large Uruk, taller than he was by an inch or two, and of great size. Some commanders would never choose a soldier stronger than they were, knowing they risked losing a challenge, but Tulûk knew that it was more than just strength that made a leader. His troop was the best because he chose only the best, and accepted only the best from them, and from himself. The youngster lifted his lip in a snarl, defiance bright in his eyes. Dark blood clotted on the broad shoulders where the overseer had enforced his will. He would be trouble this one, but a fine warrior. Tulûk stood for a moment in thought, then nodded decisively, a hint of a smile twitching his mouth. Hadn't he been just such a one ten years ago.

"Right then!" the overseer motioned with his whip. "With the others." The young Uruk growled in response but moved obediently. Good.

"Tulûk!" A familiar voice boomed from above them, and he looked up with pleasure to see a broad-faced Uruk striding down the ramp towards him.

"Marath!" He lifted both arms to grasp the shoulders of the other in greeting. "Well met, my brother!"

"Sha!" barked the other, returning the embrace, "You've beaten me to the best of them again."

Tulûk laughed. "Good hunting in the horse-lands I see." Fresh blood encrusted a new victory ring in his brother's ear, and his left arm was heavy with wealth.

"Aye." Marath grinned, "Plenty of fighting, and rich pickings in gold and women. Just what I want to keep my boys happy!"

"You lucky bastard, we've had nothing but mountain patrols for months now." 

Marath glanced over at the waiting recruits. "Have you lost many?"

"Three to Rangers on the western slopes," Tulûk grimaced sourly, "And one young fool who decided to challenge Shart."

Marath replied with a snort of laughter. Shart was shorter than most of the other Uruk-hai but his shoulders and chest were massive. He was famously unbeatable in unarmed combat. "I'll bet that fight didn't last long!"

Tulûk could not help but grin, "It took him less than five minutes to break the maggot's spine."

"Looks like you've picked a good bunch of new ones there."

"Aye." Tulûk nodded, "Though I'd better get them back to the barracks before they get bored and start causing trouble."

"Good hunting, brother." Marath's eyes were serious. Of the dozen who had shared their Birthing, only they still lived. For the first years of their life they had fought in the same troop, side by side through training and battle alike, and the bond of blood between them was very strong.

"Aye brother," Tulûk returned, "And to you also."


	5. Down From The Mountain

Chapter 5                                        Down From The Mountain

By the time they reached the slavers' camp the chilly morning sky was lightening behind the mountains, although the western slopes would remain in shadow for much of the day. 

Steeped in grief and loss Rinn neither knew nor cared how far they had walked. As heedless of the steep, broken path shifting beneath her shackled feet as she had been of her ripening bruises and swelling cheek, she could think of nothing but Lavan's crumpled body abandoned behind them. So worthless that he could be killed for a moment's sport, he had been beyond value to her. A loyal and loving friend, from clumsy puppy to fearless sheepdog. The relentless ache in her head had compounded her misery, a wave of sickness washing over her with each lurching step of her frozen feet. Time and again she had thought just to lie down at the wayside. Let them kill her if they wished, she would at least be free. But she had needed only to lift her head to see the shadowy figure of the man they called Eldred, swaggering in front of her, to feel again the hard iron in her heart. 

"I will see his death," she whispered to herself, "I will live to send him from the world."

"What-ho, Breron!" the fleshy man sat by the low burning fire looked up as the band emerged from the morning mist, yawned and scratched himself, "You've made good time."   

"Aye, not bad," the bearded man looked around proprietarily around  the camp. Two cloak-shrouded humps lay close to the fire, while a couple of small sturdy ponies were tethered nearby. "No trouble here, then?"

"Naw," the other replied, climbing ponderously to his feet, "they've been quiet as mice." He cocked a thumb at the small group of slaves, huddled under some meagre blankets, white-faced and dark-eyed. A couple of young women, a meagre-faced man and a handful of  scrawny children. "Looks like you had some though," he grinned, nodding at Eldred's swollen face.  

The woman stumbling behind was in even worse shape. Tall and strong-limbed, she nevertheless staggered weakly, blood encrusting her face above the filthy blanket she clutched about herself. 

Breron scowled, "It could have been handled better." He motioned to Jarn to put the woman with the others. "Fortunately she'll have time to heal a bit before Arnac sees her."

The fat man turned his attention to the nearest pile of blankets at his feet, "Hey, Dener!", he gave them a none too gentle kick, and was rewarded with a muffled complaint. "Breron's back. Get up, it's your turn to make breakfast."

Rinn sagged to the ground, and laid her pounding skull on her knees. Body and mind exhausted with sorrow and cold, she paid no heed when the man fastened her to the others by the rope about her neck. Only when he nudged her shoulder with a leathern bottle did she raise her head, accepting the water wordlessly. 

After a time the throbbing eased a little and she looked about her. The other slaves muttered uneasily as she passed her disfigured gaze over them, one of the women flickering her fingers involuntarily against ill-luck. The oldest boy stared at her with naked curiosity but when she tried a smile, he sneered and spat in her direction. She turned away silently with long-practiced disinterest, and looked listlessly at the rest of the camp. Her captors numbered half a dozen all told, clustered eagerly about the fire, talking and joking as the smell of porridge filled the air. To her right two small ponies cropped the rough forage, their warm breath whitening in the cold air. She watched their contented grazing for a time, the soft sound of tearing grass at once soothing in its familiarity, and agonising in its evocation of all she had lost. She drew the sorrow about her like a cloak against the hard world, barely noticing when one of the slavers thrust a hunk of bread into her slack hands.

"Eat," he commanded, his accent thick, "and rest while you can, we move out in an hour or two."

She felt no hunger, but numbly began to pick off dry morsels and chew them habitually, knowing she would need strength to face what was to come. Her gaze wandered among her captors, marking easily the blond hair of her enemy, and she felt her sorrow begin the slow distillation to hate. Finishing her bread, she wrapped her blanket tightly about her, turned her back to the other slaves, and lay down on the cold, hard ground to snatch what sleep she could.

*   *   *

"Hurry it up!" Breron cracked his whip threateningly amongst the trudging slaves, cursing them for their slowness. Three days on the move and they were still in the foothills of these wretched mountains. They needed to make the Old South Road by the week's end or Arnac would dock his pay. His temper was growing fouler by the hour and even the purchase of a couple of fine girls earlier in the day had done little to sweeten it. Most of the acquisitions were a pretty poor lot but a couple were strong enough to make good field hands, and some of the females might make passable house slaves. As for the rest, well there were customers in Isengard who weren't too fussy. 

"Eldred!" he bellowed at the young man dawdling beside the women, "Stop idling and get them moving! We've to be at Carbeck Wood by sundown, and any laggard will get more than just a taste of my whip."

Eldred smirked at the girl beside him, "Don't mind him, he's all bark and no bite."

"I'll show you bite," Breron's voice was low, threatening and suddenly at Eldred's shoulder, "if you don't get the pace picked up! And don't bother eyeing up any of these wenches," he waved his whip handle towards the girls, "they're a privilege you haven't earned."

He stalked off to the head of the column leaving the younger man seething in his wake.

"Goat-monger," Eldred muttered sullenly to himself before turning his attention back to the slaves. "Come on you lot," he snapped, "get moving." He pushed angrily at the girl he had been dallying with, causing her to stumble. Jerking on her rope she pulled the man behind her off balance, he lurched forward with a cry and within seconds half the troop were sprawled in the dirt.

"You useless herd of lice-ridden filth!" Eldred cursed the slaves as he cast a hasty eye towards Breron's back. "Get to your feet, lazy scum!"  He pulled fiercely at the yoke of the nearest peasant, resentment turning to rage at their pathetic whining. "Stand up, I said!" he snarled, dragging a girl up by the hair and kicking viciously at the nearest body.  Ribs impacted satisfyingly against his boot as the slave scrambled to his feet. He moved to aim a kick at the next filthy wool-swathed creature, and found himself looking down into the scarred face of the sheep woman. His anger flared hot at the naked defiance in her mismatched eyes.

"Get up, you miserable waste of breath!" he snarled, disgusted by her. 

She rose obediently to her feet but her heavy stare was laden with insolence and rebellion. She muttered under her breath at him, the savage gibberish of the hill-folk, and her mouth twisted in her ravaged face. Her right eye betrayed her, the flicker of intention narrowing it just as she lunged. He flung back as she sprang at him, her bound hands raking for his face, her face contorted with hate as she spat at him. Knocking her outstretched arms aside with one blow, he snatched at the rope about her neck, hauling on it while she choked and thrashed. When he released her, she sank to her knees gasping. 

"I said," he hissed, hammering her sideways with a fist, "to get up." Stupid, dull heifer. Rage and repugnance seethed in him as he hit her again, then dragged her to her feet where she stood swaying and cowed.

He looked around at the rest of the sheep, watching large-eyed. "Get bloody moving," he commanded, "unless you want some of the same."

Everything about this land was unfamiliar. The air was heavy and thick, the ground flat and the sky far away. Behind, the mountain that had been her home diminished every day, and she felt naked without it at her back. The birds and animals of the forest were new to her, even the trees  themselves were strange. Rinn shivered as she looked at them, looming about the camp, thickset and gnarled, their naked branches obscene against the moonlit sky. She curled deeper into her blanket, but could find neither comfort from the cold, nor respite from the misery surrounding her. Her neck and wrists stung in the chill air, raked raw by her rough bonds, while her feet and ankles burned with the touch of icy iron. Close by a child whimpered for its mother and someone else groaned in pain,  while from beside the fire the grunts of a man were underpinned by the stifled sobs of a young woman. 

The Westron Eldred was on watch, seated resentfully at the fire, poking at it angrily, his rancour palpable. As the muffled sounds of his neighbour increased their tempo, the blond man threw off his blanket disgustedly and rose to his feet. With a muttered curse he made his way to the edge of the camp where he pissed loudly into the carpet of leaves.

As he finished he walked idly over to the slaves. Rinn, alert to his every step, marked his approach, readying her wrath should he falter. He stopped with a start as he realised she was watching him, and his face twisted into a sneer as he aimed a kick. The accompanying words were unintelligible to her, but the disgust in them was familiar enough. 

Loosing her pain into anger, she hissed her hate at him, goading him to approach. He drew back his foot to deal her another, but a noise from beside the fire distracted him. Spitting contempt at her, he returned to his companions.

Rinn's bound hands clenched in useless frustration and her eyes burned with the bitterness in her heart. She ground her fists into the dry litter of the forest floor in an attempt to stem the gall that choked in her throat.

"Are you hurt?" the soft, faintly gravely voice of a woman came out of the darkness behind her. 

Rinn snatched about in surprise to see one of the newcomers who had joined them that morning.

"I'm Meg," the woman crept closer, careful not to wake her bond-fellows. She was older, past child-bearing, but her dark-eyed beauty was only faded not spent. Her clothes were similar, fine and well tended, but having seen better days. She nodded in the direction of the fire, "Has he injured you?"

Rinn glared at her suspiciously, "Why do you care?"

The woman shrugged in her warm cloak, "I don't particularly," she settled down nearby, "but I like to talk before I sleep, and you're the only one who's awake."

"Yes," Rinn's reply was acidly curt, "he has injured me."

"You angered him." It was a statement.

"I wished to kill him," Rinn growled.

"Because of a kick or two? Don't be such a fool." 

"No," Rinn's voice was filled with darkness, "because he killed my dogs."

"Ah," Meg softened a little, "So you did not come willingly?"

"Willingly?" Rinn was incredulous, "Why would anyone ever come willingly?" 

"It might be better than staying where they were."

Rinn stared in disbelief, "This," she gestured about her, "This is better?" She lifted her bound hands, "This?"

"Better than starving, better than being a slave in a household where one is hated," it was Meg's turn to be bitter. 

"You were a slave before?"

"I have been a slave all my life," the reply was serene, "I was born into it, and no doubt I shall die the same way."

Rinn raised her head defiantly, "I was free born. I did not come willingly."

"So I see," Meg's mouth quirked at the corners, "and yet, here you are. More a slave than I'll ever be."

Rinn's right eye flashed while her left slid beneath its murky shadow in mute support.

"There's an art to being slave," Meg shifted her position to become more comfortable, "and if you can master it, you can have comfort, wealth, power…and even love."

Rinn looked at her doubtfully, "Did you have those things?"

"I did," the woman smiled slightly.

Rinn gave a sniff of derision, "You don't have them now."

"That is true," a touch of sadness frayed the composure.

"How did you come to lose them?"

"That, my friend," the woman yawned, "is a story for another night."


End file.
